


The Boys Who Came In From the Cold

by Gwenog



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24363577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwenog/pseuds/Gwenog
Summary: Harry struggles with the presence of dementors at Hogwarts until Quidditch rival Cedric Diggory takes a personal interest. Their professional relationship is complicated by the mass murderer stalking the grounds of the school—and the rise of unexpected feelings.
Relationships: Cedric Diggory/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 54





	1. Detention

Cedric sat alone in a dark corner of the library, poking at a beetle with the tip of his wand, watching it change to a button and back again. Years ago he had discovered that Transfiguration work helped refocus his magic and clear fluctuations and blockages. He was still nursing yesterday’s blow to his head, wondering why his Impediment Jinx had misfired. Typically, he had reason to take pride in the precision of his spellwork.

With a sigh, he gathered up his unfinished Divination homework and stuffed it in his backpack. A loud _shush!_ cut across the room at the rustle of parchment. He mouthed “sorry” at Madam Pince and made to leave when a small figure dashed before him and into the hall leading to the Restricted Section.

“Potter?” Cedric said, bewildered.

“ _SHH!_ ”

He hurried quietly after Potter. They were out of Madam Pince’s earshot when Cedric caught up to him.

“Hey, where’s the fire?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a note,” Potter said, a little irritably. Cedric noticed the boy’s eyes fixed on his prefect badge.

“Ah,” he said, trying to sound friendly. “Don’t worry, I’m not stopping you as a prefect. Just one Seeker looking out for another. Although, since you mention it,” he offered a smile, “I have to wonder how a third-year convinced a teacher to grant him access to the Restricted Section.”

“Professor Lupin gave it to me.” Cedric allowed Potter a moment to elaborate, but the boy seemed to be demuring.

“What for?” Cedric prodded.

“I’d rather keep that private, thanks.”

Cedric had been indulging Potter up to this moment but, against his better nature, was growing suspicious of the boy’s behavior. He was unusually pale, Cedric noticed.

“May I see the note, Mr. Potter?” he asked.

With great reluctance, Potter handed over the haphazardly folded scrap of parchment.

Cedric unfolded it and read its contents. It seemed a fairly standard Restricted Section access pass—indeed signed by Professor Remus J. Lupin—save for its owner’s defiantly avoidant eyes.

Cedric jabbed the note with his wand. “ _Specialis Revelio._ ” The message on the page remained the same, except it was no longer in Professor Lupin’s hand, but in that of a young student, perhaps close to thirteen years old.

“You know, Potter,” Cedric said patiently, “I’m certain that if you had actually asked Professor Lupin, he might have given you a pass. Besides, you wouldn’t have made it within an inch of the gate without tipping off Madam Pince; she’s put Caterwauling Charms on everything in there.”

“May I have it back, then?” Potter said, still dodging Cedric’s gaze.

Cedric acquiesced. “Credit where it’s due, Potter, that was a bit of impressive illusionary magic, for your age.”

Potter squared his shoulders and stalked off.

“Can I retrieve a particular book for you?” Cedric said evenly. That seemed to stop him in his tracks. “Prefects of course have free access to all corners of the castle. What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” the boy murmured after a pause.

Cedric eyed him quizzically. He put a hand on his shoulder and steered him deeper into the library, away from Madam Pince and into a dimly lit study area. Here the evening sun cast long shadows on the carpeting. Only a small band of sixth- and seventh-years and a house-elf tidying up the shelves still occupied the floor.

They sat at an empty table by a stained-glass window, its myriad colors splashing onto the Gryffindor’s black hair in the streaming sunlight.

“May I call you Harry?”

Harry nodded.

“What’s the matter, Harry?” Red veins spiderwebbed along the whites of his bright green eyes.

“Really, Cedric,” he said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“And yet here you sit,” Cedric gestured broadly. “If I have to give you detention and needle you every night for the rest of the semester until you tell me, Harry, I will!”

Harry chuckled—a small victory—but remained silent.

“Does it have anything to do with what happened at our last match?” Cedric suggested, keenly aware of the soreness of the subject. With his Nimbus 2000 shattered, Cedric had not seen the Gryffindor Seeker back on the Quidditch pitch, even for practice.

Harry’s smile vanished and his face grew dark. He was looking down again.

“The dementors.” Cedric’s chair groaned as he leaned back. “You want to learn how to defend yourself against them.”

“It’s not a crime,” Harry said defensively.

“I should hope not. I would not want to be accused of accessorizing criminal activity.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that, if you’ll let me, I will personally teach you everything you need to know about dementors and how to fight them.”

“Why?”

“I’m a Hogwarts prefect,” Cedric said proudly, sitting a little straighter. “It’s my duty to help students in distress.”

“Distress is a bit much.”

“Perhaps think of it as one Seeker helping another. We know better than anyone how difficult it can be to carry a great burden alone. There’s a certain brotherhood in that, would you agree? Not to imply that you might feel any kinship with Draco Malfoy.”

Harry laughed again. “But... how?” he asked.

“Well, it’s—if you’ll pardon me saying so—a bit adorable that you thought you needed to break into the Restricted Section for books on dementors. I don’t fault your logic!” he added quickly in response to Harry’s face. “They may be the foulest Dark creatures in existence. But unlike most things in there, they’re a well-known part of our world, though you will find that even most adult witches and wizards can’t perform the spell to repel them. It’s very advanced stuff. Thankfully, I have some small talent for defensive magic and, from what I hear, so do you. My schedule is a bit tight but, well. What do you say?”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. He looked out onto the grounds through the stained-glass window. Cedric could see the towering stands of the Quidditch stadium reflected vaguely in his round glasses. A shadow seemed to pass over his eyes. The sun had just winked out behind the mountains when he spoke at last.

“Thank you, Cedric.” It was barely audible, and there was still little eye contact, but a heavy weight seemed to lift off his small shoulders.

“Excellent!” Cedric said, clapping his hands softly. “Then I will see you in Greenhouse Three for detention tomorrow evening.”

“What?”

“You’re still in trouble for forging a teacher’s note, Harry.”

———————

“Harry, that’s incredible!” Hermione whispered from behind the fumes of their cauldron. “Cedric is one of the top students at Hogwarts. Rumor is he’s a shoo-in for Head Boy. You’re so lucky to be tutored by him, I’m jealous!”

“I’m sure _that’s_ why you’re jealous,” Ron shot venomously, “not because he’s the fittest bloke at Hogwarts. I suppose you’ll be wanting to snog him, like every other girl here.”

“Oh stop, as if I care about any of that,” she said, though Harry noticed a bit of pink rush to her cheeks. “Pass me the mistletoe berries, please.”

“Do you know what spell Cedric was talking about, Hermione?” Harry asked as Ron handed her a glass jar filled with white berries. “The one most adult wizards can’t do?”

“I’m sorry, Harry, no. But it must be O.W.L.-level magic, at least! You’ll have such an advantage in our fifth year.”

“I mean, seriously, the man is lightning on a broom. Best school Seeker since Charlie. No offense, Harry.”

“Why don’t _you_ snog him, then, Ron?” spat Hermione, mixing the berries into the potion. “You talk about him more than any girl I know.”

“I would!” Ron blurted, went red in the ears, then said, “You know, if I were a girl. And if he weren’t shagging Angelina Johnson.”

“ _Ron!_ But… is he really?”

“That’s what Ginny said.”

“Oh my,” she said breathlessly, giving their cauldron a deliberate stir. “Well, all done here, I think.”

Harry’s eyes fell to his copy of _Magical Drafts and Potions_. He wondered what Cedric would think if he couldn’t keep up in their lessons. He would probably be characteristically polite and say that he could no longer make time after a while, that he had too much on his plate already as prefect and Quidditch captain. That would make Harry feel worse. He’d prefer for Cedric to yell and say he was hopeless, that it had all clearly been a mistake and, for good measure, that they should only speak to each other on the pitch.

“You alright, mate?”

“ _Mr. Weasley_ ,” hissed a low, soft voice. “Since you and your friends have so much to say today, perhaps you’d care to demonstrate your Antidote to Common Poisons for us?”

Snape loomed over them like a vulture on the hunt. The color drained from Ron’s face, but he rose bravely and scooped a phial full of potion from the cauldron.

“How shall I serve it to you, sir?” Ron said. Hermione let out a tiny gasp.

“Five points from Gryffindor,” Snape said icily. “I think not, Weasley. I wouldn't touch anything you had a hand in concocting if it were the last drop of drink in the world. No. But how about this, ah, little critter?” Snape’s glittering black eyes narrowed on the furry red head poking out of Ron’s pocket.

“Jobber’s just had his second lunch, sir, he couldn’t possibly have any more—”

“If you’ve brewed your potion correctly, Mr. Weasley,” Snape drawled, “then it’s got nothing to worry about.” He turned to address the rest of the class. “I shall now administer a deadly but common poison to Weasley’s ferret. If he has brewed his antidote correctly, it shall survive. If not…”

Malfoy and his Slytherin goons made no attempt to hide their snickering. Harry rifled through his textbook and glanced at the surface of their cauldron’s contents. Its fuchsia finish matched the book’s instructions. He gave Ron an encouraging look.

Snape seized a squeaking Jobber from Ron, who was trying to shield him with his robes. He forced the ferret’s mouth open and squeezed two drops of a clear liquid onto his tongue. Jobber began to choke immediately, his tiny body convulsing in Snape’s grasp. The other Gryffindors shouted in protest, but Snape silenced them with a sharp wave of his hand.

“Save your pet, Mr. Weasley,” he said, his words silk. “Administer the antidote.”

Ron shot a nasty look at Snape but tipped his phial into Jobber’s mouth with haste. The convulsions ceased, and for a moment he seemed to breathe again. Then he seized so violently that Snape had to set him down upon the table, screeching horribly.

“What’s happening to him!” Ron cried.

“Oh no!” Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth. “Ron, these are _ghost_ berries!” She was holding up the jar Ron had handed her earlier.

“My, my,” Snape crooned. A twisted half-smirk crept onto his lips. “It appears that even Miss Granger couldn’t make up for Potter and Weasley’s unfettered incompetence.”

“Please, Professor Snape!” Hermione implored. The other Gryffindors were now on their feet.

“ _Eructo_ ,” Snape said, aiming his wand at the ferret, a hint of boredom in his voice. Jobber vomited at once. He breathed very heavily for several moments, then collapsed in the arms of his master, who was weeping openly.

“Potter, Weasley, and Granger foolishly confused ghostberries for mistletoe berries,” Snape went on unperturbed. “When applied to the Antidote to Common Poisons, the potion’s finish is indistinguishable from the proper brew while manifesting the opposite of its intended effect. In other words, the poison in this ferret worked twice as quickly as it should have. A lesson, then, from these three’s near-fatal ineptitude: In potion-making, there is no room for error, nor for _idle, insipid gossip_. Twenty points from Gryffindor. And Potter, you will stay behind and scrub these cauldrons. _Without_ magic.”

“I already have detention tonight… sir,” Harry said, struggling to conceal the contempt he felt for his Potions teacher.

“And I find that entirely unsurprising, Potter,” Snape sneered. “Your disdain for the rules of this school knows no limit. You will remain here until you are finished cleaning. The rest of you are dismissed.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Ron said gloomily, gathering his things and holding Jobber gingerly against his chest. Harry had never seen his friend like this. He could have mistaken him for Neville.

He felt his blood run hot. This had been their last class of the day, a double period with the Slytherins, to say nothing of Snape. He had wanted to rest before meeting Cedric, unsure of what they would be doing tonight, and now… What would Cedric think?

“Hermione!” he cried after her, a thought occurring to him. She hadn’t taken two steps back when Snape intercepted her.

“You are _dismissed_ , Miss Granger,” he told her, with such finality that she nearly took down Millicent Bulstrode as she bolted out. “You may begin, Potter. Cleaning supplies in the storage cupboard.”

Harry’s footsteps echoed in the empty classroom. He could feel Snape’s eyes boring into the space between his shoulder blades as the cupboard door creaked open on its hinge. A large rat scurried out of his way as he reached for Eglantine Puffett’s Self-Soaping Dishcloth and a pair of dragon-hide gloves. Besides cleaning supplies and spare ingredients, Snape seemed to keep bottles of fully brewed potions here. He recognized many of those at eye level, and those on the higher shelves not at all, save for a large unlabeled jar filled with a muddy substance he thought might be Polyjuice Potion.

His eyes were drawn to a small oval phial in which something like molten gold seemed to be stirring. Unlike the jar of mud, this potion bore a label: “ _Felix Felicis_ , or Liquid Luck.” Entranced by the thought of escaping Snape’s petty punishment with a bit of good fortune, he reached for the bottle. The sudden sound of the Potions Master’s cloak swishing against the stone floor somewhere behind him quickly dissuaded him from that particular notion. He grabbed the cleaning supplies and set himself to work.

It was nasty business. Something gelatinous had congealed at the bottom of Goyle’s cauldron and Snape had made him scoop it out using his fingernails. Neville’s was in no better state, and Harry doubted whether he’d ever be able to wash the stench of it off. He was even made to clean up Jobber’s vomit. He thought he might soon throw up himself when a familiar voice sounded at the door.

“May I interrupt, Professor Snape?” It was Cedric Diggory, his impressive frame occupying much of the doorway. His winter cloak was thrown about his shoulders and flakes of snow glittered in his dark hair. Harry’s blood surged hot again, but it was a distinctly different feeling from the anger he had felt at Snape.

“What is it?” Snape said irritably. He had been wrinkling his nose at a cauldron Harry had already cleaned, presumably in search of unsatisfactory scrubbing.

“I wondered if I could take Mr. Potter off your hands, professor,” Cedric said, his tone light. If he sensed any hostility from Snape, he gave no indication of it. “He is scheduled for detention with me this evening.”

“I realize, Mr. Diggory,” Snape hissed, “that Potter’s malfeasance at this school creates an unprecedented demand for disciplinary action, but as you can no doubt see, he is quite tied up here already. You may do with him as you wish when he is through ridding my classroom of his and his friends’ filth.”

“Pardon me for insisting, professor,” Cedric’s congeniality remained unchanged as he approached Snape, unfurling a bound-up scroll he produced from within his robes, “but as you can see, I have cleared Mr. Potter’s detention with his Head of House. If her written consent is insufficient, I’m certain Professor McGonagall would be happy to speak with you in person. I know she takes a personal interest in the handling of her students’ misconduct.”

Snape’s lips curled into a very thin line as he glanced over McGonagall’s note. He seemed quite in danger of becoming apoplectic.

“Potter,” he growled, not deigning to turn and address Harry directly, “get out of my sight.”

“Yes sir!” Harry nearly tripped over himself in his mad dash to the storage cupboard, tearing the dragon-hide gloves off his hands as he ran. He put everything back in its place as neatly as he could in his impatience to see the last of the dungeons—and Snape—for the day.

And whether it was the adrenaline pulsing in his veins or just plain unadulterated madness, Harry could not say, but without thinking twice he unsheathed his wand, aimed it at the little golden potion on the high shelf and whispered, “ _Geminio!_ ” A perfect twin appeared in his hand with a small _pop_. He snuck the real Felix Felicis in his robes and quickly filled the empty space on the shelf with the fake.

When he returned, Harry found Snape staring intensely at Cedric and Cedric appearing very interested in something in the ceiling. He was struck again by Cedric’s remarkable presence, easily matching the height of a fully grown man more than twice his age. Next to him, Snape suddenly didn’t strike Harry as so fearsome, nor his manner quite as looming.

“A pleasant evening, Professor Snape,” Cedric said, inclining his head toward Snape, who said nothing but sank his eyes in Harry as though they were daggers. Harry muttered a curt farewell and filed past him, moving closely behind Cedric.

It was not until several moments later when they had reached the snowy castle grounds and were safely out of Snape’s reach that Harry let out a laugh, his first true, from-the-depths-of-his-soul laugh since the school year began.


	2. Billywig

The echo of his own mad laughter had just begun to fade when Harry caught the hint of a smile on Cedric’s lips.

“It must’ve felt so _great_ handling Snape like that,” Harry said, his labored breath frosting before him.

“Mr. Potter!” Cedric said, affecting a reproachful tone. “Prefects don’t _handle_ Hogwarts teachers. We merely... nudge.”

“Oh, oh, yes, of course,” Harry agreed, nodding his head vigorously. “But how did you know where I was?”

“You have good friends, Harry. Hermione Granger came to find me in the changing rooms after your lesson. She was quite agitated, but coherent enough.”

“Is that why there was snow in your hair when you came into the dungeons?”

Cedric looked at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “It is.”

“And… prefects don’t normally need Heads of House to sign off on detentions they give out, yes?”

“That is correct,” Cedric said deliberately.

“But then,” Harry tapped his chin, “if you were outside when Hermione found you, how did you have time to ask Professor McGonagall to sign off on my detention?”

Cedric smiled again. He had a very reassuring smile, Harry noticed. “You’re not the only student at this school who can perform illusionary magic, Harry.”

Harry was stunned. “Just so we’re clear,” a thrill rose in him; he could not explain why he was not upset, “you’re about to punish me for something you’ve just done yourself.”

“In fairness to me, Harry, if half of what Professor Snape says about you is true, _I’m_ the one who’s being punished.”

“Oi!” Harry shoved the older boy, who did not budge an inch. “Wow, you’re made of marble, mate.”

“Thank you!”

“So, what if Snape asks McGonagall about the note?”

“Oh I don’t think we need to worry about that. He’s terrified of her. Ah, here we are.”

Frosty grass crunched beneath their boots as they approached the Herbology greenhouses. The day’s last rays shone beautifully through the glass, casting pools of warm light on the snow. The darkening sky thundered as they entered Greenhouse Three.

“Professor Sprout!” Cedric beamed at the sight of the plump Herbology teacher. She was bent over several rows of potted plants. They appeared dormant, but Harry’s heart sank a bit as he identified them by their long, spiky tendrils.

“Oh, Cedric, good,” the witch grunted. “I’ve just finished arranging the troughs. Can you get the Tentaculas milked and fertilized for tomorrow? Poppy’s been breathing down my neck all week.”

“Leave it to us, professor.” At that, Sprout blinked at Harry as though having just noticed him.

“Good to see you, Potter. I would chide you for landing yourself in detention but we can’t be turning down the free labor now, can we?” she cackled cheerily, thumping Harry on the back. He nearly buckled from the force of it. “Well, hard ground makes stronger roots, after all. Bit of Herbology wisdom. No? Alright, be leaving you to it. Look after the kid, Diggory, or Minerva will have my hide. Cheers then!” And she popped out.

“Er, _milk_ Tentaculas?” Harry said, watching Sprout hobble away.

“Their venom has excellent healing properties,” Cedric explained, undoing his cloak’s silver fastenings and tossing it aside in a single motion. He bent down and poked around the cabinets under the tables. Harry thought he heard something buzzing down there. “When mixed with essence of dittany, of course. Don’t recommend ingesting it alone, unless you want to end up purple. We usually supply Madam Pomfrey with just one batch per semester, but she has some, er, _extra concerns_ this year.”

“Because of the dementors?”

“And Peter Pettigrew.” Cedric became very still as the words left him, his back to Harry.

“Why do they think he’ll try to get into Hogwarts?” Harry asked, trying to sound conversational. “Your dad works at the Ministry, right? You must know something.”

“Nothing specific,” he said evenly, resuming his rummaging, “just that he’s searching for something. Much like myself. Ah- _hah!_ ” He came up holding two little bottles full of what looked like lilac milk. He handed one to Harry. “Distilled Tentacula extract, to counter the venom if you’re bitten.”

Harry sighed, but drank. “Now what?”

Cedric moved closer to Harry. Again Harry noted the significant disparity in their respective heights, as he had the first time they’d faced each other on the pitch. The top of his head just barely reached Cedric’s chest.

Cedric began to unbutton his robes.

Without thinking, Harry took a sudden step back. He swallowed hard as an odd lump formed in his throat.

“Everything alright?” Cedric asked. He let his robes tumble to the floor, revealing a full Quidditch uniform underneath.

“Er—”

Cedric closed the gap between them again and unfastened the sports armguard on his right arm, reaching gently for Harry’s. 

“I believe you’re right-handed?” he asked. Harry nodded. Cedric pushed back Harry’s sleeve and began fastening the leather bracer along the length of the boy’s forearm. There were rough calluses on his hands, yet the touch of his fingers felt soft and warm wherever they happened upon Harry’s skin. He thought Cedric smelled a bit like earth, not in any unpleasant way, but like rain on a rich soil. Finally Cedric ran his hands along the secured guard and pulled hard on the straps.

“Is that too tight?” Harry shook his head in response. There were tingles on the tips of his fingers, but he didn’t think they were from the guard. Cedric smiled at him again, in that reassuring way Harry was coming to know well.

“Then let’s begin, shall we?”

It was hot inside the greenhouse despite the snow falling just beyond the glass, and Harry grew increasingly uncomfortable as they worked. Occasionally the troughs trembled as lightning shot out of the black sky and struck the grounds nearby, which seemed to anger the Tentaculas. They were still growing, Cedric said, but their lashers were fierce. The boys had to be careful not to turn their backs to them, else the hungry devils might lunge at the slightest opening.

It turned out that the way to milk a Venomous Tentacula involved baiting it with human flesh and allowing it to bite, hence the armguards. The gooey purple venom was then collected in fat bowls on the floor as it dripped from their woody jaws. Harry had not been bitten directly yet, but had been lashed multiple times and there were several small gashes along his cheeks. It was a long struggle to make the Tentaculas release once they had clamped down on the armguards. By the time the bowls were filled, Harry was very near collapse.

Panting, he glanced over at Cedric just in time to see the Hufflepuff Quidditch captain pull his soaked shirt off over his head. There were many tiny cuts on his cheeks too. His hair fell in dark waves over his forehead, and the beads of sweat on his bare chest glistened in the dim firelight of the greenhouse’s torches. The deep, sinuous lines of his body indicated a physical power that was unusual in Seekers. The shadows dancing on his—

“Harry?” Harry’s head swiveled back toward the Tentaculas so quickly he thought he may have sprained his neck. “Why don’t you sit down and rest. I’ll fertilize quickly.”

Harry obeyed, leaning against the back wall and slumping to the floor. Cedric withdrew his wand from the back pocket of his beige trousers and swept it deliberately along the length of the room. At once several buckets lined up in the air along the Tentacula troughs and emptied their contents into them in unison. Harry had never seen a student perform nonverbal magic before. He watched quietly, entranced.

With another silent wave of Cedric’s wand, the Tentaculas yawned, their thorny vines curled and retreated, and they lay as dormant as they had first found them. Cedric leaned over and pressed the fertilizer into the soil, careful to treat each plant individually. He toiled for a long while, and when he came up at last, there were streaks of dirt on his face and chest—and he looked handsomer than Harry remembered.

Finally he dusted his hands and came to slump down next to Harry on the grimy floor.

“So,” he panted, a bright grin shining through the dirt and sweat and blood, “ready to learn the Patronus Charm?”

“You’re not serious,” Harry laughed. “I’m exhausted!”

“What better time?” Cedric cleared his throat and brandished his wand a third time. “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

A cloud of silver burst from the tip of his wand and coalesced into the spectral form of a large white dog. It had a long wavy coat and strong limbs, and it cantered through the air with great elegance, bathing the greenhouse in brilliant moonlight, until at last it came to rest its long snout upon Harry’s outstretched hand.

“He’s… beautiful,” Harry breathed.

“He’s a borzoi,” Cedric said, gazing at it with a glimmer of pride, “a Russian wolfhound known as the Walking Cloud. More importantly, he’s a Patronus, a manifestation of my happiest thoughts and memories. In short, everything a dementor fears. Take out your wand, Harry.”

Harry obeyed. Cedric leaned in very close.

“Close your eyes.” His breath was hot on Harry’s cheek, and the hours of work had intensified his earthy fragrance. It filled Harry’s mind with dreams of spring. “Conjure the happiest memory you can.” Harry’s iron grip on his wand turned his knuckles white. Cedric laid a hand on Harry’s, gently guiding him through the motions.

“Now,” Cedric whispered softly in his ear, “say the spell.”

The borzoi watched expectantly.

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” Harry shouted. His eyes flew open as silver vapor poured from his wand. It did not solidify, as Cedric’s had, but Harry thought he saw, briefly, a pair of soulful eyes peek out of the mist. The borzoi Patronus sniffed curiously at the vapor cloud, until it vanished with a small _woosh_ as though swept away by a gust.

Harry let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Did you see that!” he gasped.

“You are immensely talented, Harry.” Cedric’s gray eyes gleamed in the silver light of his Patronus. “Anyone else your age would have gotten nothing more than a nosebleed for their trouble, attempting this kind of magic.”

“But…” Harry said, his face falling a bit, “it didn’t take the form of anything.”

“Even an incorporeal Patronus will fend off a dementor. But I have something that may help.” He pointed his wand at the cabinets and a glass jar flew into his hand. Within, something blurry and brilliant blue was buzzing.

“This is—”

“A billywig,” Harry finished. The winged insect was little more than a footnote in _The Monster Book of Monsters_ , but Harry had enjoyed fantasizing about the effects of its sting over the summer.

“Correct,” Cedric said, sounding impressed. “I borrowed him from Hagrid yesterday in preparation for this lesson. As you know, the stinger causes giddiness and levitation, but some Australian wizards use it to enhance their spellcasting by inducing an ‘elevated frame of mind.’ It could help you produce a corporeal Patronus. Of course, it’s a banned substance at Hogwa—”

“Give it!” Harry said, lunging for the jar. Several holes had been poked on the lid.

He unscrewed it and the billywig flitted out, spinning so fast it was but a blur of sapphire.

It made to flee, but Cedric’s hand shot toward it like a lightning bolt, caging it gently. It buzzed angrily, spinning ever faster.

Cedric ran his free fingers through Harry’s hair, tilting the boy’s head back ever so slightly. Harry was keenly aware of his jugular pulsing in his throat as Cedric’s other hand approached. The billywig’s stinger, many times the length of its body, flashed white in the borzoi’s light. A sudden terror overcame Harry, who was reminded of Muggle needles. He tried to pull away.

“Hold still,” Cedric said firmly, his brow furrowed, and he seized a fistful of Harry’s hair. Harry ended his struggle at once. His lips parted. His breath quickened.

The stinger penetrated deep into his neck. A soft moan escaped him. His eyelids fluttered.

Fear dissipated. As the sun banishes shadow so was all evil thought expelled from Harry’s mind. Every flicker of the torches, every wing beat thundered within him. The greenhouse exploded in a hundred colors. He was light as rain.

To his right, Cedric had driven the stinger into his own wrist. Their mounting laughter echoed within Harry. 

Cedric Diggory was radiant. A blue sunburst danced around him as though he were the glorious morning. Harry’s fingers searched the prefect’s face, touched the sweat-slicked waves of hair and the small white scar along the edge of his brow. Thunder shook the earth’s very foundations.

A brightness came over Cedric then, not as one afflicted by the happy juices of a billywig, but as if he were seeing the other boy for the first time, their faces inches apart.

“You’re beautiful, Harry.” Cedric’s breath filled Harry’s lungs. He was drunk with it, mad for more.

Their lips met. Wet. Warm. Electric. Laughter boomed again. Another kiss. Another lightning strike. Steam rose from Cedric’s naked body. His fingers raked the nape of Harry’s neck, pulling him in closer, harder. It was so natural, the instinct, the desire to meld into another person. Harry thought he might die of it.

“Conjure your Patronus,” Cedric commanded, his fingers tracing the lines of Harry’s mouth.

This time, Harry did not search for a memory.

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

A fully formed silver stag erupted from the tip of his wand. It pranced and threw its head, inviting all to gaze upon its crown of antlers. It rejoiced at the sight of the silver dog, which had come bounding up to meet it.

“I—I did it,” Harry said between fits of laughter. His eyes welled in the glow of his Patronus. “I did it! He’s incredible.”

“He's you,” Cedric said. Light danced in the gloss Harry had left upon his lips.

Harry beamed. Then his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he saw nothing more.

———————

They were no longer ‘elevated’ by the time they left Greenhouse Three. Harry did not know the hour. It was snowing heavily, but the lightning storm at least had abated. Cedric had donned his robes again, but his winter cloak was wrapped around Harry’s shivering body. Harry’s stag Patronus had winked out when he had fainted, and he felt too weak to attempt the spell again, but Cedric’s borzoi remained, lighting their way back to the castle through the darkness pressing on the grounds.

“Will there be more lessons?” Harry was saying. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to summon the stag again without the boost.”

Cedric did not answer immediately. A shadow seemed to have come over him. He had been strangely quiet from the moment Harry awoke in the greenhouse.

“Let’s get out of this blizzard,” was all he finally said, his voice small. “We can speak inside.”

But Cedric did not answer while within the castle walls either. He insisted on escorting Harry back to the Gryffindor common room, but they exchanged few words on their journey up the Tower. Harry had the distinct feeling that he had done or said something to upset his tutor (was he still that?), but could not reason what. The memory of Cedric’s kiss lingered on his lips, but a veil had fallen between them in the moments since that Harry could not pierce.

They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady—snoring soundly in her frame—when Cedric spoke at length again.

“I’m very proud of what you’ve accomplished in just one evening, Harry.” Harry’s stomach leapt to his throat. He knew what was coming before it did. “But I think I owe you an apology. It was wrong of me to push you to use an illicit substance to help you cast a spell, and I certainly shouldn’t have used it myself while supervising you. I put you in danger.”

“But I—”

“Please let me finish. You have all the talent necessary to proceed alone. I don’t need to burden your progress with my own issues. And I shouldn’t’ve… I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“That wasn’t just you.”

“I’m three years your senior and in a position of authority over you. Not to mention dating Angelina, your teammate. I’m glad to have been able to help you, Harry, but I think you should continue practicing alone.”

“Oh. Yeah, alright. Thanks. I will.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Maybe I’ll see you at Quidditch practice? Here, don’t forget your cloak.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

Harry stood silently in the darkness of the common room landing long after Cedric had gone. Something squeaking underfoot shocked him back to earth.

“And just what time do you think this is to be waking me up?” the Fat Lady said when he tapped her frame to let him in. “Oh, Potter, it’s you. My dear boy, whyever are you crying?”


End file.
